


Thrown to the Wolves

by coaldustcanary



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - World of Darkness (Games) Setting, Captain Swan Supernatural Summer, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Fake Marriage, Hunter Captain Hook | Killian Jones, Marriage of Convenience, Self-Indulgent, Werewolf Emma Swan, Werewolf Politics, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2019-06-30 05:18:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15745065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coaldustcanary/pseuds/coaldustcanary
Summary: Werewolves are pack creatures, but Emma "Swan" Blanchard has always preferred to work alone. When a missing wolf and a dead body smell like imminent trouble for the werewolves of Portland, she returns home to the city to track down whoever's responsible. She soon discovers that she's not the only one trying to figure out what's going on in her old stomping grounds, and also finds herself stuck with a partner - the infamous Killian "Hook" Jones - in more ways than one.





	Thrown to the Wolves

**Author's Note:**

> At long last, my self-indulgent World of Darkness/Werewolf: The Apocalypse AU! Because the World of Darkness is a game system comprised of hundreds of RPG sourcebooks and massive amounts of detailed material, this is a very _light_ fusion, and I'm glossing over lots of setting details and mechanics in the interest of story. 
> 
> This fic is also a bit of an ode to Maine in general, with references to many real-world locations, so it must be said - while many of the locations that appear in this work are real, all have been fictionalized to greater or lesser extents.

The park on the south side of the bay was large, dotted with clusters of trees and spread over a vast hillside overlooking the water, meeting it directly at high tide, and with a rocky, muddy beach when the tide was low. It was shaded by a passing bridge and highway, and offered the perfect vantage point from which to see ships coming and going, or the array of vessels large and small moored in Portland across the way. From massive cruise ships making their way from warmer climates to stolid cargo ships laden with containers from Scandinavia all the way down to the squat little lobster boats and the rare elegant tall ship looking like something out of time, Portland’s harbor bustled. It was both a working harbor, with heavy trade in international shipping, and a tourist’s playground, clustered with restaurants and bars. Just beyond the harbor, on Commerical Street, for a few blocks both groups created a busy throng of cheerful humanity.

Even here, across the harbor and the Fore River in South Portland, gentrifying neighborhoods and a fair view made for more traffic, more tourists – and much less parking. Emma cursed under her breath as she eased the Bug into a narrow spot along the road that bound the south side of the park and the crest of the hill, turning the wheels into the curb and applying the parking brake to keep the old beast from rolling on into the sea. Turning off the ignition, she laid a hand lightly on the car’s dashboard, closed her eyes, and let her consciousness seep down into the sun-warmed metal.

“Blend in, buddy,” she murmured. A grumbling, mildly offended vibration was the only reply the car deigned to give, but as she opened her eyes, the sunny yellow on the car hood seemed to fade, and without any conscious thought, her gaze slid away from the car to the park and the flowered bushes just beyond. With a small smile, the opened the door and stepped out into the summer heat, walking away from the vehicle that even she had a hard time laying eyes on, now, let alone anyone else passing by. The Bug might be a difficult car to keep running, but decades of “life” had given the car a powerful spirit inhabitant that could be coaxed into cooperation nearly as easily as a dog could learn new tricks. It was more than worth the trouble, even if it meant the odd game of fetch with a bicycle tire now and again to keep it happy.

The warm, humid air was thick with the scent of mown grass and the beach roses that dotted each cluster of bushes. Beneath the heavy scents of summer the pungent, salty earthiness of a receding tide mixed with the acrid exhaust and oil from cars and ships filled Emma’s nose, nearly overwhelming her senses. She closed her eyes, inhaling deeply, and smiled.

“So they finally believe after all.” Emma’s breath caught briefly in her throat, but she forced herself to exhale slowly, and only then open her eyes. The sight of August’s face prompted both a pang of relief and a certain undercurrent of shock. His familiar features were far more careworn than she’d ever seen them, and both his hair and scruff were peppered liberally with gray. When he’d found her as a child on the streets, sick and panicked, her body fairly vibrating with the need to become the wolf for the first time, he’d been barely out of his teens himself. Now he seemed, if not old, older than he ought to have been. The life of a city wolf came with certain benefits, but nobody would ever call it easy. Emma looked down, away from his faint smile and forced a smile of her own even as her chest tightened with guilt.

“It’s good to see you. Despite circumstances,” she said. August smiled crookedly.

“It’s good to see you, too, Emma. Looks like the woods and wilds have been good to you,” he said, tilting his head to look her over with the same curious scrutiny she’d paid him, his gaze lingering.

“Though I can’t imagine that jacket is very good camouflage,” he added, a hint of teasing humor in his tone. Emma shrugged and tugged at the red jacket’s hem pointedly.

“It’s not. The jokes I hear about hunter’s orange are really old and unoriginal at this point, but I’m not changing my style for any stuck up, stuffy werewolf nobility with more names than brain cells. They all wear clothing out of last century. Or camo. Or even _plaid_ , when they’re obliged to blend in with the humans,” Emma grumbled. August snorted, shaking his head.

“You can take the wolf out of the city, but you can’t take the city out of the wolf,” he said gently. “I did warn you. And them. But I don’t think your mother wanted to hear it.” As August spoke, he turned and gestured down the path for her to walk with him into the park territory of the city wolves. Emma hesitated, eager fondness to return warring with cautious instinct to hang back The scents of this place were so familiar, but at the same time every wolf’s instinct in her body urged her to stay back, out of this place marked and claimed by other wolves, wolves who weren’t her family any longer. August was at her side suddenly, his hand very lightly resting on her shoulder.

“It’s still your home. It’s always your home,” he said firmly. Emma swallowed and nodded once, jerkily, taking a few cautious but deliberate steps down the path, the tension in her shoulders easing a fraction. She let out the breath she’d held onto for too long in a steady stream, and looked sideways at August who paced her, stealing regular glances in her direction. When their eyes met, she held them briefly – not long enough to hint that she was challenging him, mindful of how the wolf could take eye contact – and managed a small smile.

“Thanks.”

“It’s only the truth. I just wish…” He paused, and at Emma’s searching look, managed a tight smile in return.

“Never mind. You’re where you need to be. But I’m glad they understand how risky this situation is for us all, and let you come back to help us.” The edge of relief in his voice was palpable, and Emma grimaced.

“Well. Gotta be honest, here. They still don’t exactly agree with you on that,” she said slowly. August’s brow furrowed.

“Then why-“ he began, and then stopped abruptly, his eyes widening. “Oh, Emma. You didn’t…”

“She didn’t outright forbid me from coming.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I might not have told her that I was leaving, though.” August groaned, clutching a handful of the hair at the back of his head in frustration.

“No, don’t act like that,” Emma started, pointing a finger at him. “You taught me the rules just as well as anyone-“

“Yes, as _we_ follow them, here in the city. Loosely. Subject to interpretation and balanced with our need to survive among humans,” August said intensely, pitching his voice low and for her ears only. Some subjects it was best not to let strangers overhear.

“I haven’t broken any of our laws, August. I’m respecting claimed territory, both yours and theirs. I announced myself when I came, and I was permitted entry, or did you actually mean to tell me to go to hell instead of welcoming me ho-here?” Emma drew herself up straighter, a sharp edge to her voice. August abruptly turned from her and started walking, pulling Emma along by her sleeve. She fought down the snarl of anger and jerked her arm free, though she kept pace with his rapid stride, even as he snapped a reply.

“And what of your responsibility to your mother? To your pack? I sent word to you about what’s going on here because I knew you’d believe me. I thought you could convince the Storybrooke wolves that a wolf gone missing like this is just as much a danger to them as it is to us here. Even if a Kinfolk’s death is nothing they will care about,” he growled. Even as he spoke, August continued walking out on the dock that extended from the wedge of parkland tucked under the highway bridge overpass to the city. The sun was sinking below the horizon to the west, casting long shadows into the river, and though it remained humid and still, the temperature was dropping quickly. August only stopped walking once there was nowhere else to go but the river itself, staring pensively across its modest expanse to the city on the other side.

“She didn’t forbid it, August. That has to be enough. And you know my pack would stick out here like a sore thumb. They’re very good at being werewolves, but they’re not at all good at keeping a low profile. Even if I could convince them to help me, it would be a disaster. They’d talk to spirits right and left and look crazy to the humans. And if that wasn’t enough to get the cops called, they’d probably come armed to the teeth with medieval-looking weapons and wearing armor. Can you imagine Mulan casually toting her sword around the city, looking for an enemy to stab?” August sighed

“We could use their help, though. They might not trust city wolves much, but we’re all in the same boat, here.” Emma shook her head, fighting to keep her voice even.

“You’ve visited Storybrooke, what, twice? On formal occasions only? You don’t know how they are when they’re being honest. Merida told a grand tale at the last full moon gathering, you know, about how great it was that the wolves had taken out all the rest of the shifters. It was this incredible story about how great it was that the werebears were all dead, and how her father had gloriously slain one himself in single combat. She’s a bit extreme, maybe, but it’s not even unusual up there. It’s been a decade since a wereraven has been seen anywhere in the North Country, let alone Storybrooke, and they used to be our allies. And the other wolves don’t even pretend they don’t wish that they could go hunt down the last few werecats for fun.” August held up his hands against her tirade.

“As if they’d find them…” he muttered with a roll of his eyes. “But I know, Emma. I know. They’re self-righteous to a fault, but it’s not a bear or a cat we’re talking about here, it’s a wolf. It’s Will. He’s gone, and we can’t find hide nor hair of him, not the slightest trace.”

“And Liz?” Emma asked. She knew the truth of it, likely better than he did, but she had to hear it in his own words.

“Traces…everywhere.” He blew out a breath, settling on an overturned bucket with slumped shoulders. Emma crouched on her heels, squinting slightly against the glare to peer across the river before she began to speak, reluctance in her tone.

“The cops are still confused. Official investigation theory is that animals got to the body, but it doesn’t fit the timeline at all. She had not been dead long when they found her.” August looked at her sharply and Emma shrugged. “We don’t really do the high tech stuff up in Storybrooke, but Dad’s still the town sheriff. We have Kinfolk in every position of authority there. I had him pull the file from the state database. Walked him through it, step by step.” She’d hated to do it, to prevail upon the man she’d known for only a scant few years for a favor, the kind she’d wheedled as a bounty hunter from Portland police contacts under Cleo’s training. But as hungry as she was to know her family and understand their strange ways, they were just as eager, just as quick to try to connect with her in whatever way they could.

Even if for her father it meant providing illegally-obtained crime scene photos that she could pore over for evidence that one of her old acquaintances had committed a gruesome murder that could put every werewolf in Maine in jeopardy. And when push came to shove, and she had formally asked her mother for permission to return to the city, he had supported her mother’s stern denial. Not that it mattered. He was only Kinfolk, of course. Hardly more than human, and outside the city, that meant useful and little else.

Oh, her parents loved one another. That had been a strangely comforting realization, to see that even traditionalist werewolves who lived outside of human civilization as much as possible could still see the value of individual human-like Kin for anything besides breeding and propagating the next generation of werewolves. But when your spouse, or your parent, or your sibling couldn’t take the wolf form or speak with the spirits to learn their secrets, it made them _less_ for many werewolves, particularly those who lived in their own private fiefdoms, like her family and the land they ruled, protected by magic. Kinfolk were plentiful – they outnumbered werewolves by a significant margin, with the magic, or genetics, or whatever it was that created them a fickle thing – but in the town of Storybrooke, they played a role more than anything.

David, her father, might be the town sheriff, but when your wife was one of the highest-ranking werewolves on the North American continent, what did it matter? When your mate could take the form of a terrifying wolf-human hybrid and have any mere human gibbering with fear, had slain vampires, fought off multiple challenges for her throne, and bartered with powerful spirits for secrets beyond mortal understanding, a badge and a service revolver meant precious little.

So he’d been glad to help her – he was so fond of her, so proud of all she’d become, and her mother was, too, in her way – but when it came to a decision, when it came to action, his voice was silent. It wouldn’t have mattered a whit had he spoken, of course. But Emma wished, vaguely, that he’d tried. But sometimes when Kinfolk tried to take a stand, especially if it disagreed with a werewolf, particularly one they were close to…

“Will’s probably hiding, August,” Emma said, admitting what she’d begun to suspect days ago, as soon as he’d sent word. “I don’t think he did it intentionally – he’s not that stupid and he’s not cruel – but he probably lost control of the wolf. If Liz cursed him out or got tired of his bullshit antics or even breathed funny and he took it the wrong way, and couldn’t control himself…” August had sagged on his seat, his elbows on his knees, but at Emma’s suggestion he straightened and shook his head, eyebrows climbing toward his hairline at the implied accusation.

“He wouldn’t. He can be an idiot, and impetuous, but he wouldn’t,” he said firmly.

“All it takes is one moment of weakness. You’re the one who taught me how important control was, and how quickly you can lose it. I’m sure he feels terrible about it, but I saw the pictures. If it wasn’t Will, then some other werewolf killed Liz.”

August didn’t argue the point; he knew it to be true as well as she did. They sat in silence on the docks, only the soft sound of the tide coming in, raising the slow-moving river by inches surrounding them. With the light reflecting on the soft waves and the cries of the gulls overhead, it might have been peaceful. In another time, but in this very same place, she’d spent many peaceful hours in August’s company, and with Cleo, Lily, Will, Jefferson and the handful of other tough, tradition-flouting werewolves and Kinfolk who preferred to live here surrounded by humanity. They’d found her and taught her the ways of the world when the bitter feuds among political rivals had left her a veritable orphan. It would be sweet to pretend that nothing had changed and she still belonged here, but then she’d been “rescued” from the hardscrabble city life and whisked off to a fairy tale existence as freaking fantasy-creature royalty. But Cleo was dead, Lily gone, and whatever August might say, this place was no longer her home. Emma abruptly pushed up from her crouch and walked back along the dock to the park with purpose, her eyes adjusting swiftly to the growing dark.

“Either way, I’m going to find out. Don’t wait up.”

* * *

 

The old cobblestone streets of Portland could be treacherous even for a cautious driver – dimly lit and thick with pedestrians – but Emma took the Bug across the bay into the city nonetheless. To let the car stay hidden for too long was risky in general, so she’d coaxed it into dropping the camouflage, instead only keeping the usual distraction magic in place to keep anyone from looking too closely at the car’s registration, or lack thereof. She avoided the Old Port area where tourists thronged easily enough, skirting the west side of the city only to turn for the northern part of the peninsula where Will lived in Bayside.

Here the city mixed historical buildings with industrial warehouses, and though no housing could be considered cheap in Portland, not any longer, it was at least cheaper than anywhere else in the city proper. Whether it would remain that way for long was doubtful, however. Will lived equally quite close to both the city’s homeless shelter and the Whole Foods grocery store, and new apartment buildings sprung up every month alongside multi-million dollar renovations of old buildings. Emma’s mouth twisted with distaste at every visible change she catalogued as she pulled the Bug to a stop along a sidestreet curb. Will’s apartment was on the third floor of an aging multi-family dwelling. The first floor housed the elderly Kinfolk gentleman who owned the building, while on the second floor lived a family of city wolves and their Kin. She could check in on old Percy at least, before she went up to Will’s place. He might have a sense for where Will would be laying low. She mounted the porch steps lightly, ready to pull open the door to the building’s shared common stair, when she glanced up briefly and fell perfectly still.

The third floor window was softly illuminated from within. A human wouldn’t have seen it, or at least dismissed it as a trick of their eyes and the ambient light from streetlamps. But Emma could see the light move through the window above, concentrated and small, like a flashlight. Emma’s eyes narrowed as she considered the possibilities. Any of the building’s other inhabitants would turn on the light – they had no need to hide. If it was the cops, they’d have lit up the building like a Christmas tree at the very least, and parked cruisers all along the street. And if it was Will himself he would hardly need or risk a flashlight. That meant that while the obvious suspects were unlikely to be up there, someone taking pains not to be seen was in a missing wolf’s apartment. Steadily, her step light and cautious on the old creaky stairs, Emma crept up the first flight next to Percy’s apartment door, listening carefully.

There was the soft hum of a radio from Percy’s apartment, and that of conversation and laughter from the second floor, but beyond that Emma couldn’t make out any particular noises from above. She passed the second floor landing and continued to the third, testing each step carefully and taking her time. The apartment door was slightly ajar, and she could see the faintest glow of light and soft movement, of someone walking carefully over the creaky floorboards. As she reached the third floor landing, Emma pulled in a breath slowly, weighing her options, and then bent to pull a slender knife from her boot. She might rue the idea of Mulan bringing her sword to the city, or Merida striding down the street with her bow, but she wasn’t entirely averse to being armed. Straightening, she gently nudged the door open, pressing it with a fingertip, and thanking whatever spirit of the night or silence was looking out for her that the door swung freely and without a sound.

Will’s apartment was a single room with a high ceiling, and in the late summer heat the air was stiflingly thick and warm. A running ceiling fan squeaked rhythmically, spinning in a feeble in an attempt to keep the air moving, but it accomplished very little besides covering the sound of Emma stepping into the room, her gaze fixed on the black-clad figure shouldering a satchel with its back to her as it held some kind of light over the room’s unmade bed. She inhaled delicately in the space of a heartbeat, scenting the room’s occupant – a man and wolf-blooded, but not a werewolf. Whoever he was, he was definitely Kinfolk, but not someone she knew, and that was all she had time to decide before action was required. He paused in his apparent search, and started to turn. The room was four strides across for an average human. The muscles in  Emma’s legs burned as she leapt across the room in a bound, setting her shoulder into the figure’s back and pressing him down onto the bed. The figure crumpled with a grunt, the bed’s springs screeching in complaint, and Emma swiftly brought her knife to his throat.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she hissed. A breathless wheeze was her only immediate answer as his gloved right hand convulsed on the source of the light he’d been carrying. Emma’s eyes widened and she pressed the knife more firmly against her captive’s throat.

“Drop. It.” The light source dropped to the sheets with a soft noise, and the room was plunged into full darkness. Emma swiftly moved her free hand from his back to the piece of carved wood he’d carried, picking it up and jamming it into her boot. Only then did she ease her weight from the man’s back a trifle, and he drew in a rough, gasping breath before answering her, voice muffled into the rumpled bedclothes.

“Could ask you the same question, love.” His voice was accented, but despite the playful words, he didn’t move, remaining absolutely still. Carefully, she wrapped her fingers in his dark hair and steadily pulled his head back, free of the bed. He hissed in pain, and she carefully scraped the edge of the knife a fraction higher against his neck.

“You were saying?”

“I said, ‘What’s a nice girl like you doing in a wretched place like this?’” Though the skin of his neck slightly indented from the blade’s pressure, his tone was somehow light. Emma used her handful of his hair as leverage, turning his head to the side so that she could get a look at him and in the relative privacy of the pitch blackness, she took a moment to take in his features. Dark stubble, good cheekbones, and thick lashes that fluttered prettily when he blinked. Not at all bad to look at. When his blue eye met her own unerringly even in the darkness, however, she froze and sniffed again, carefully, to confirm her original suspicion. His scent carried the edge of wolf-blood, but not the specific, powerful scent of a fellow werewolf. There were ways for werewolves to hide their scent, but even that trick had a price – he wouldn’t smell of anything at all if that was the case. But he smelled very much like a man, and like a Kinfolk, and no werewolf could pretend otherwise. At least not that shew knew of. Her grip tightened a fraction, and he grunted in pain.

“I do apologize if my scent offends, my morning ablutions were so long ago now,” he ground out, teeth flashing in a sharp grin.

“Is this really that funny to you, wise guy? Who are you, and what are you doing here?” she tried again.

“If you let me up, I’ll answer any question you like, but this is rather uncomfortable for us both, don’t you think?” He shifted, trying to get his feet beneath him, most likely. Emma sighed and let the entirety of her weight settle on his back for a moment, leaning close his ear as he wheezed once again.

“Stand up, both hands where I can see them, and keep it slow.” With that, she slipped to her feet and took half a step back, yaning the satchel from the man’s shoulder as she went and dropping it to the floor. With a groan, the man rolled to his side, pressing his right hand against his ribs with a wince. She stepped back away, giving herself room to maneuver.

“Just the one,” he ground out, using an elbow pressed to the bed to lever himself slowly to his feet, keeping his arms raised slightly afterward. In the dark, his smile was pained, but still disarmingly charming.

“What are you talking about?” Emma snapped, unamused. “One what?”

“Hand, darling.” The fingers of his right waved in her direction, but the left was still and lifeless. It tickled a memory, but then it was gone and she frowned, shaking her head.

“Oooo-kay, that’s just fascinating. Let’s try this again. I’m going to ask you one more time who you are and what you’re doing here, and if you don’t start answering instead of flirting _pronto_ I’m going to lower your total number of hands further one finger at a time.” The smile on his face faltered.

“Brandon Smith. I’m doing the same thing you are, I presume – looking for Will Scarlet, but as you see, he’s not at home,” he snapped, an edge of sullen impatience to his voice.

“What’s the spirit for?” He smiled again, tilting his head.

“Why, the flask in my pocket is for my own consumption, but I’d gladly share-“ Emma growled over his lilting invitation, a rumbling, thunder-like sound that couldn’t have come from a human’s throat. His smile returned, though it was more a baring of teeth than anything.

“I don’t have your nose, darling. The carving hosts a dog spirit who can sniff and track. But you know Will’s not been here for a week or more.” She lifted her chin slightly, but he wasn’t wrong.

“And your name?”

“I _told_ you-“

“Bullshit,” she cut him off sharply, raising the point of her knife to point directly at his face. “I know a lie when I hear one. You can deflect and dance around a topic, but when you lie to me I damn well know. Tell. Me. Your. Name.” He let out a breath through his nose, somehow still unerringly able to meet her eyes in the dark. He couldn’t possibly see her face, and yet…

“My name is Killian Jones. I am, as I’m sure you know, Kinfolk.” Truth. The first plain statement he’d made this whole time, and it was the truth. But he wasn’t done.

“You probably know me by another name, though,” he continued. Still the truth. She made a soft noise of inquiry, lifting an eyebrow, the knife blade unwavering.

“Hook. The wolves, they call me Hook.” The room fell silent, save for the steady squeaking of the overhead fan. The urge to take the wolf form swept over her like a cold wave and she inhaled sharply, his scent prickling with uncertainty despite his steady expression. The blade point wavered as she gripped it so hard her hand trembled as she fought down the howling need to have fur and teeth and claws. Hook. She’d heard stories, of course. Werewolves were nothing if not tale-tellers, particularly when it came to their enemies. Their traitors. In some he had chosen to become a vampire, in others inviting his possession by a spirit of vengeance. But in all of them, he was Kinfolk – blood of the wolf who had betrayed his own people. Murderer. _Hunter_. He watched her – though he couldn’t be in this lighting, not really – almost expectantly.

“It’s just there,” he said finally, breaking the silence. His arms remained slightly raised and still. “In my bag.” Without lowering her blade, Emma crouched, slowly reaching her left hand into the satchel. Her fingers brushed over the few items inside, until they settled around the one she was looking for. Gritting her teeth, she wrapped her fingers around the cold metal shape and pulled it free, hissing softly under her breath. It prickled at her fingers sharply, alternating between freezing numb cold and needle-sharp pain as she held it up. The wickedly curved hook seemed to glow in the dark of the room, the enchanted silver casting its own light. They both stared at it for a long moment before she looked away, back at the man who seemed to be waiting on her, his arms slowly dropping to a defensive position in front of his body.

She was leaping for him with a snarl, body contorting and sprouting thick silver fur, before either hook or knife had hit the ground.


End file.
